Avoir et Etre
by Zilent1
Summary: [Shawshank Redemption] Broken wings and cold exteriors, the outside world really is so harsh to one institutionalised prisoner. But what made Brooks take it all?


**Title:** Avoir et Etre  
**Author:** Zilent1  
**Archive:** Zenith Seraphic, Fanfiction.net. E-mail if interested.  
**Notes:** This is a 'prequel' to Brooks' suicide. Something I had to write for my 'Prequels and Sequels' unit at school for a studied media.  
**Disclaimer:** I do not and will not own anything in Shawshank Redemption, both book and movie.  
  


~ + ~

  
  
For most of my life I have been living in a cage, like a bird. Institutionalised I had become over the years, knowing that no matter what I did, I would never get out. Not forcefully, anyway. By the time that cage door was open, freedom and parole were like gifts parents should have given their children before they got too old. A child who had gotten used to what they had, and stuck with it. I in turn was the devil's advocate, unwilling to take what was offered to me from that rusted-by-time platter, yet I had no choice in the matter.  
  
The unwanted forcefully thrust upon me.  
  
In all honest truth, I think that living on the inside was better than living on the outside; the outside world is harsher than inside stone grey walls. Harsh in the way that what _was_ is nothing but a past and distant memory, and what _is_ is the prsent now. Austerity at its worst. Compare it to being sent outside to the bitter wind and snow, from your warm and cosy house. You cannot go back into the warmth for the door is locked and, instead, you have to endure the coldess on your own. But from the inside, the snow looks so pretty. So inviting.  
  
It's always greener on the other side.  
  
What _is_ is harder on these old bones that what _was_. But it seems my bones are not the only ones suffering from this excessive wandering in the snow. No less than a week outside, did a close and dear friend of mine drop by. Dropped by in the sense that he died. His wings more than clipped, but freedom long gone. I see my friend as perhaps playing out a scene of my life story. The finishing act. He seems to have mimicked me perfectly.  
  
Broken wings and all.  
  
Such a bittersweet life. But to me, his passing means something else, more symbolic. I suppose I have always had a knack for being able to interpret things from the impossible. The flight of a bird is freedom, clip its wings and he is free no more. But when it dies, its freedom in life goes too. It simply ends. I suppose poor Jake got caught up in it all. I do not suppose he is used to such extremeities, even if he is my freedom. Flying around amongst such foreign things. I guess the strain of fitting into what _is_ got him too.  
  
Being mended and all.  
  
It happened to be a bleak and rainy day my freedom died. I was huddled beneath my blankets, huddling for warmth, watching the dull greyness walk around outside. It was as if by chance that a black raven stumbled upon my windowsill, its wing hanging at an odd angle. I started at it for a while, contemplating on how much it looked like Jake, and how desolate it seemed on the outside. I had slowly made my way to the window, leaving behind my warmth, and opened it so ever slowly, just in case I scared the poor thing away.  
  
No need to scare a harsh-bitten friend.  
  
I felt the cold, harsh mix of wind and rain hit my arms, making them shiver in the bitterness. I gently aided the poor thing inside and I noticed it seemed so tame, as if it already knew me. Holding i in cupped hands, I placed it upon my rumpled bed sheets, ignorant of the white becoming darkened red, and the ever-growing patch of rain. He did not stand, but slumped upon the bed, exhausted. I reached for the broken wing but it screeched at me, as if to say, "No! Leave it be! My freedom's gone and cannot be mended!"  
  
A screech so familiar to inside.  
  
Huddling upon my bed, we slept, perhaps readying to greet a new dawn. But when dawn arose, the only thing that breathed was me. I looked down upont its broken, battered form, but wept no tears. Its freedom was already lost, it died simply to end the pain. The room was unusually cold, I noticed, but the sun was laughing on the outside. This coldness still gnaws at my bones now.  
  
That bird long gone and buried.  
  
But I've taken into mind the situation played before me, and I find myself amongst the coldness, that warmth all outside. My bags are packed, holding my few possessions, I don my best and now I feel as though I should let the overwhelming pain consume me. What _is_, rushing about my blizzard blindly, and what _was_ are now nothings. No metaphorical flashes of life before my eyes. Why bother? My wings are clipped, my freedom gone, I'll make like that raven and end it all. Broken, mended and out of place? What is to happen when the lock to that warm house has changed and you are left outside to endure the coldness for ever?  
  
  
The open window brings inside the outside coldness, coldness of the harsh what _is_, overtaking what _was_. Old bones swinging from a rafter carved with "Brooks was here," the memories of what _was_ and inside stone grey walls become nothing beyond nothingness. Blown away by that bitter wind of outside.  
  
Gone but daresay not forgotten, the birds with unwanted freedom and broken wings.  
  
  
**End.**  
  
  
**A/N:** R/R, C+C very welcome. If you feel as if you must flame, do so but be sensible about it. This is a 'prequel' to what happened before Brooks committed suicide [as mentioned above]. 


End file.
